
Charles J. Stewart 




Class _IE,5jiiJ*L7 

Book. T ^ H 

fopyiighfF S^n 



COHfRIGHT DEPOSm 



Poems 



Clliarles J, Stew^art 



"He is a portion of the loveliness 
Which once he made more lovely. 



Poems 



of 



Charles J. Stew^art 



Memorial Edition 



HiUsdale ^^ 



1917 



^D X^tK ^(^^ 



m 13 1918 

©CI.A497264 



FOREWORD 

This little volume is not for the marts of trade. It 
will find its way into the hands of friends only, who 
will always hold it in kindest reverence, not merely for 
the possessions it contains, but out of memory for the 
rare spirit who, while he speaks so briefly here, was in 
his life a perpetual benediction to them. 

These poems were never meant for publication. 
Their existence was not knov/n, even by his most 
intimate friends. They were mere by-products of his 
pen, written, when the mood was on, merely for his own 
pleasure, and therefore not to be judged too severely 
for any shortcomings, whether in substance or in form. 
But whatever defects the reader may discover, he must 
be impressed by what a world of beauty the author saw 
lying all about him, what richness that the common 
soul can not express, na3^ cannot even feel. Nature 
v/as all aglow for him and infinitely suggestive. 
"Like the tall black strings of a sun-gilt harp, 
Tower the pine trees grim through the gathering 

dark. 
And out of their hum comes a dreamy note, 
A far off song in the hollow throat of the sobbing 

wind." 
Or 

"And out of the corn, dim silver and tan, 
In dull bronze green, tower the apple trees. 
On the 3'ellow breast of the long hill's span, 
In the mottled maze of a eaudv frieze." 



He was impressed by the insoluble mysteries of 
life and like every true artist he stood before them in 
awe, with uncovered head. No solution may offer 
itself but it is his faith 

"that the world moves on secure, 

With a definite plan and a definite will." 

He will, at least, feel the problems greatly and right 
in the face of the world of hard realities, lying all 
about him, he will shadow forth an illusion of a still 
higher reality, according to which he will make over 
the world of the here and the now: 

"So why sorrow because behind the dial, 

We cannot see, 

Or touch the hand of ruling destiny. 

The distant hill-crests glitter in the light 

Of white winged dreams in restless flight, 

Yet far between stretch valleys deep 

That faith must span. 

For human limitations cannot curb, 

The grandeur of the universal plan." 

But Charles Stewart will be remembered by his 
friends, not merely for what he could do or for what he 
had done — and that was no small item in his short days 
of frost and sun — but for what he innately was. He 
felt that it was one of the privileges of the world just to 
be, and he was thankful for life even though it be 
granted upon hard terms. His estimate of life was 
commensurate with the high calling of being just a 
human being. It was just this largeness of spirit, his 
gracious kindliness, his poise and calm, his grasp of 
realities and his human touch that impressed his 
friends. In fact, his main biisiness in life, above any 



young man that I ever knew, was the making of friends, 
and the making of himself, through severe self-culture, 
worthy of being a friend. The rest of his work, 
important as it may have been, was seemingly a mere 
avocation. In his last hours he was giving himself to 
his young friends. 

He expressed in a tribute to another beautiful spirit, 
the key to his own gracious life. "There are many who 
fulfill stern creeds of right, but there are few who do not 
forget that the final worth of their goodness is in its 
accessibility to others." The richness of his life was 
pre-eminently accessible to others and the select few 
who were admitted into his holy of holies and who 
caught glimpses into that rare world, where only the 
elect spirits, such as his own dwell, were happily 
fortunate. This little volume will be to them a 
reminder of those happy experiences and will enable 
them to share, when they open its pages, some of the 
beauty which he beheld. They will find treasured here 
a few glints of his spirit. 

J. F. M. 
Hillsdale. 
December?, 1917. 



The Hills 

Autumn 

The Corn 

The Pine Trees 

The Night Song 

Wind and Stars 

Song 

April 

The Loiterer 

The Pool 

The Autumn Night 

Spring 

Lines 

Faith 

The Promise 



THE HILLS. 



Out of my window and over the hills. 

Over the hills and far away, 
An uncrowned king, I view the world, 

Monarch of all I survey. 

The hills their mighty crests upheave 
in serriei lines ag^.inst the sky. 

And they sing a song with accents deep, 
A song, the same as L 

Like giants in drowsy grandeur set. 

While the days pass slowly o'er their crest, 

Like pilgrims slow, in winding row. 
Into the purple west. 

And still those solemn long hills lie. 

In age brooding quiet deep 
While the boisterous winds of a thousand 
years 

Over their gray breasts sweep. 

Vacant the sky may seem, 

Lonesome the hilltops bare. 
But there is an understanding deep, 

Between me and those hills over there. 

When out of the sky sweep the clouds, 
When the reaper has gone to his rest. 

Then the old hills murmur to me. 
The song that the heart hears best. 

Spring and summer skies. 

Heat and winter's cold. 
Shall come as they may. 

But they will always stay 
My friends, those old hills bold. 



Then blow on your way, Winds, 

You have cradled us all centuries long, 

And let us sing to the might}^ swing 
Of the chords of your roaring song. 

And on and on through the years, 

We will sing as we have always sung. 

For in the mighty count of things, 
I and the hills are one. 



AUTUMN. 



The glow on the forge is low, 
Naught but a feeble light is left, 

The hammer is cold from the blow. 
And the heart from joy is bereft. 

The wind through the bare branches sighs. 
As a gale through shipwrecked masts. 

And the Wind God sullenly flies, 

His storm stained clouds on the blast. 

And I wonder if along with the light 
And the joy of the passing year. 

All Nature has suffered a blight. 
In its rain draggled glory drear. 

One feels the old year groan, 

In the mutter of the sodden branch. 
And the cold rain lashes in silver foam. 

And the pale leaves weirdly dance. 

Like a beggar, the distance thinly clad. 

Shivers in the ragged rain, 
And the crow like a mariner sad, 

Seeks a fair haven in vain. 

And over the mind comes a dread, 
As the mist draws over the hill, 

And phantoms like ghosts ever spread. 
Their ominous shadows at will. 

And a cry goes up from the heart, 

As from a wanderer lost in the maze 

And in anguish tears apart. 
The shadowy curtains of haze. 



Oh God of Light, strike again 

Thy beacons on yonder hill. 
Flash again the glorious light of day. 

And may there be gladness still. 

Kindle again the maples glow, 

And breathe the green back on the hills. 
And stir the spirit that here below. 

The world with splendor fills. 

But the rain still beats on the leaves. 

The tattoo of the dying year. 
And the trees in smoky sheaves. 

Look down with a ghostly leer. 

And alone in the heart of man. 

Remains a tiny glow. 
Like the gleams of a dying torch, 

After the feast burnt low. 

Yet even as the savage of old. 
Bent over his smouldering blaze. 

So the Pagan's hearthstone cold 

Must flash the warmth that he craves. 

Then strike the hammer a merry blow. 
Let its clank challenge the misty dark, 

Stir the embers smouldering low. 

That they flame with the hidden spark. 

And merrily strike again. 

Till our heart with gladness sings 
And the woes of the year depart 

In the joy that labor brings. 



THE CORN. 



Pale rustle the corn stalks in the wind, 
And twinkhng swing in the yellow sun. 

While over the world, its vastness unfurled, 
The sky's solemn purple is flung. 

And the fields of frost stained leaves. 

In their march far over the hill. 
Like swords are agleam in the golden light. 

And cross and glance in flickerings bright 
In the cloudy blues that the distance fills. 

And out of the corn, dim silver and tan, 

In dull bronze green tower the apple trees. 
On the yellow breast of the long hill's span. 

In the mottled maze of a gaudy frieze. 
On their crests, the sun strikes emerald fire. 

And every leaf is set ablaze. 
Through the golden gray of the autumn morn 

That over the world in silence lays. 

Pale rustle the corn stalks in the sun, 
Far through the haze is their silver spun, 

Mixed v/ith the gold of the purple skies, 

Stained with its geld when the sunlight dies, 

And still they swing and rustling sing. 
As the hours their dreamy coursings run. 



THE PINE TREES. 



Like black fingers across the rainy sky. 

The pine trees rise, 
While in the pool below, the fleeting glow 

Of the sunset burns with a thousand eyes. 
Purple and gold the shadows play. 

Far across the land they lay 
While through dreamy hours. 

In the pinetree towers. 
Sobbing voices sing, while the long arms swing 

In low accord. 

As jostled dreams the dead leaves lay. 

In withered blood with seared stems gray. 
Or here the flash of a crimson moon, 

Struck from the maple's scarlet loom, 
And lost in the wet blue haze 

Where every leaf ablaze. 
Burns like a gaudy ember cold, 

In last dull flicker on the Earth's hearth old. 
Black through the gloom, the pine needles swing 

With the shiny gleam of the wet they beam, 
And the dartling red from the west they fling, 

Like torches through the dark. 

And down below lies the silent pool, 

Crimsoned are its dim depths cool. 
Where scarlet shadows in streams of red, 

Glitter over its deep black bed. 
As crimson blades through their weavings flash, 

On their silver trail, the raindrops splash, 
Molten gold from the setting sun, 

Far through the red flushed rain clouds spun, 
Like comets far through the shadows flung, 

Deep into the dripping gloom. 



Like tall black strings of a sun-gilt harp, 

Tower the pine trees grim through the gathering 
dark. 
And out of their hum comes a dreamy note, 

A far off song in the hollow throat of the sobbing 
wind. 
Of shadowy visions far it sings. 

Of the birth of thought and of primitive things, 
Of the outer world, where the human mind 

Can only at such moments find 
A fleeting glance. 



THE NIGHT SONG 



Through the dusty gold of the autumn night, 
The moon peers through the willow trees, 

Its pale red face has a crimson rim. 
And smiles through the sky's deep azure dim 

And the yellow glint of the willow leaves. 

A pagan monarch in filmy gold, 

It rises through the evening haze. 
That lurks behind the distant hills. 

While beacon-like the willows blaze. 
Their silvery trunks in the mellow light 

Gleam dreamy amber and pearl 
With purple shadows thin and bright 

That play on the leaves like fingers frail, 
And clutch at the moon in sheer delight, 

While the moonbeams flee in glittering flight. 
Like chaff from a golden flail. 

Black arch the willows across the moon. 

Black each leaf with saffron gleam. 
Anchored in the silver pool 

Of the slanting moonlight's quivering stream. 
And ail is still far over the lake. 

That mysteriously smooth in the soft light spreads, 
Like a silver basin filled with stars, 

Shaken down from their purple beds. 
Not a ripple stirs its pale blue breast. 

Spreading between the black shores wide. 
While tlie moon like a maid on endless quest. 

Glides softly over its star flecked tide. 



At perfect rest tlie whole world lies, 

A land of dreams and visions wrought, 
Lost in the breast of endless skies, 

Yet answering to every thought, 
That breathed in the ears of the brooding gloom, 

Reveberates and in echoes trace 
Its pattern on the eternal loom. 

That binds all time and place. 

Upon the hill, the starlight glistens. 

And white are the grass folks' tiny blades. 
And to the cricket song, the moon maid listens 

On her path through the twilight glades. 
The day was glorious, but the night is blessed 

By a sacred silence that seems to fall. 
While the evening star gleams in the west, 

Like a virgin's lamp in a gem paved hall. 
Then comes an intimate cadence deep, 

From beyond the sphere of common day, 
As Nature lies in visioned sleep. 

And shadows like souls through the darkness stray. 
And revealed it is, at such an hour, 

That the world is one great sleeping whole, 
That life and death are but bud and flower, 

In the firmament's purple, star-lined bowl. 



WIND AND STARS 



The pines' black arms sweep against the stars. 
The white eyes of the sky that blink, 

As the frosty green sweeps the spangled stream, 
And low in the dark their mutterings sink. 

Wine splashed is the fiery western sky. 
The pale moon is red as at a feast, 

Of warring hosts who with reckless hand. 
Have stained the breast of the purple East. 

A yellow crest through the crimson flush, 
On the neck of the cold North Wind it lies, 

While like faded blossoms its thin light falls 
Where black in the gloom, a lone crow flies. 

And far through the rocking shadows wail. 

The monsters of the northern gale. 
White with angry toss, the forest lords 

Shake the white from their hoary heads, 
And with the murmured song of pagan hoards 

Spread snowy jewels on their dark leaf beds. 
And the tameless spirit of wind swept wastes. 

Shrills loud through the gloomy lanes. 
The wind king roars from distant shores. 

And the elemental reigns. 



SONG 



Far off in the dark, a dim blue flower swings low in the 

shadows gray, 
As drowsily on bending stem, it rests at the close of day. 
At the stars above, it nods and they nod back in turn, 
As a twinkle of light in a purple sea, their tiny candles 

burn. 

A stately ship far in the gloom, spreads wide its snowy 

wings. 
As around its bow in showers of pearls, the silver waves 

it flings. 
Dreamily it rocks along, the even billows o'er, 
As a great white bird on phantom wing, it turns to a 

distant shore. 

The golden moon, a ruddy gem rises high from the 

eastern sea, 
And far and wide in the quiet night, the glittering tide 

runs free. 
The waves are paved with a path of gold and restlessly 

press along. 
Murmuring on since time began, their endlessly echoed 

song. 

Refrain 

Thus all the world's at rest, all land and sky and sea. 
And ever moves in the eternal spell of perfect harmony. 
Then banish all discord and worry of worldly gain. 
And in the twilight, gently sing our simplest refrain. 



APRIL. 



Drifts of green In filmy strand, 

Over the budding branches near. 
Rise across the sunlit land. 

And glitter against the purple clear, 
Of the drowsy sky whose breast unfolds. 

Streamers of dreamy blue and gold. 

There is green in the trees, in the hedges and fields. 
With pale white stones on the hillside far, 

And a dusky breath that half conceals, 
The yellow glint of the plow's long scar. 

And all Heaven and Earth is mingled one. 
In the magic spell of the April sun. 

Into the distance's blur of blue, 

Caught on the copse and the orchard old. 
The emerald light waves slanting through. 

And the bursting buds in a mist unfold, 
And spread to the sun their petals frail. 

On the sunbeam streams like fragile sail. 

And the little troubles and the haunting fear. 
That have long beset the early year. 

Now vanish in dreams that like magic streams. 
Lead up on the swell of dreamy wings. 

To the top of the world and the beginning of things. 



THE LOITERER. 



It is enough to sit and watch 
The sunlight glow on the distant hill, 

And to feel that the world moves on secure, 
With a definite plan and a definite will. 

Against the sky gleams the spring's first green, 

Golden the fresh turned field. 
While the plowman whistles in the wind, 

And pink showers the orchards yield. 
With nice precision turns the eternal mill. 

The hopper's full and every plan with care 
From visions spun and from dreams emerge 

The great and small of earth and air. 
The turtle's cold nose and the yellow glitter 

Of the cowslip deep in the weedy bog, 
Where in the sunlight silver puddles glisten 

And violets are born from the dank black sod. 

Thus over the marsh croaks the crimson winged 
blackbird, 

And the dandelion winks at his big friend the sun. 
And hardly does Nature finish one wonder. 

Before on its loom another is done. 



THE POOL. 



Dim in the twilight glows the pool, 

A soft white eye far through the gloom, 
A gem in the lap of purple night, 

The waiting child of the rising moon. 
Far through the black of gnarled boughs. 

Gleams the silvered calm of its naked breast, 
With the crimson flush from the lingering red, 

Of the vanished sun in the silent west. 
Phantom-like lingers the failing light, 

A pale pink dancer circling slow. 
A vision form through the shadows vague, 

With its flickering taper burning low. 

Around the marge, the silent shades. 

Draw close as druid priests of night. 
And the twilight maids, their shuttles plying. 

Spin silver robes from the ripples white. 
Sweet is the breath of the black shrouded forest, 

Cool are her lips that with vague whispers press 
Smiles on the dreams of the slumbering day. 

Mistress-like with soft caress. 
Dank-like the marsh in spangled pale shadows. 

Gentle its touch and with moist fingers plays 
With every slim maid that like a fair maiden. 

Over her sky gilded mirror sways. 

And the silver pool with sleep grows dimmer. 

With the last faint flicker in the western sky, 
Behind the tall, grim forest lords. 

That sentinel-like lift their heads on high. 
Silence, without a thought in discord 

To the murmured song of gentle night 
As earth and sky like sentient beings 

Lie wrapped in the gray of the dim twilight. 



Vast and far through the lone fields of blue, 

Motionless the white stars blink. 
And only their thin white petals of light. 

Like tiny smiles on the pale pool sink. 
The moon-maid, a radiant princess fair. 

Treads the silent ramparts of her castle high. 
While over the world is her glory unfurled, 

And asleep on the pool, the shadows lie. 

Deep with the poppy breath of dreams, 

Throbs the pulse of Nature low. 
And through the moonlight's silvered streams. 

Comes the star's white twinkle slow. 
Far off in shadowy peace, 

The earth has drifted away, 
Down the silent streams to the land of dreams. 

Far lost to the common day. 



THE AUTUMN NIGHT. 



In silence the sky draws her gray coat about her, 
While bare phantom trees tower in solitude grim, 

With the mists like beads on their bare branches 
flashing, 
Their tiny white eyes twinkling far and dim. 

Stained yellow leaves, living bits of pale sunshine, 
Are clutched by the fingers of velvety wheat, 

And on the far hill tops, the drifting haze lingers. 
Sentinel-like over dream valleys deep. 

All Earth and Sky press close in the shadows. 
The great parent beings with Man the child, 

Their whispered breath on the sunset pool. 
Flashing in glittering rainbows wild. 

Closer gathers the sliroud of evening, 
A far, soft grayness with misty breath. 

Black armed, the trees tower dim in the shadows. 
Their gaudy leaves cold in sodden death. 

The spirit of unspoken things is loosened. 

No time is marked, its hand withheld. 
With a pause while the mist's small silvery fingers 

Light and shade into darkness v/eld. 
Dreams spread their wings in the starry twilight, 

And the earth sleeps on in the sky's embrace. 
While thoughts released from trammeled thinking, 

Trace the first far visions of the race. 



SPRING.. 



In drowsy blues, the hill crests rise, 
Like fairy isles where Spring's first greens. 

On shadowed boughs a drifting haze, 

P'ar through the awakening valley gleams. 

Dim in the wind hang the clouds aslant, 
Soft snowy blossoms that gaily drift, 

Down the Heaven's purple lane, 

From where the mists their pale veils lift, 

Against the sun's dull crimson stain. 

In drowsy blue* the hill crests rise, 

Beyond the rifts of fresh spun green. 
Where Spring's first breath on budding boughs, 

Like emerald flames in the shadows gleam. 
Yet so soft lies the air and so quietly drift 

The clouds in the dusk of the twilight glow 
That never a thought of how or where, 

Comes to disturb the even flow. 
Of the river of blue, where sailing far through. 

The great white flowers the crimson air strew. 



LINES. 



When the night lies dark with only the twinkle 

Of the sky's dim pathless blue, 
Where the myriad stars their pale eyes flicker, 

Dreamily the long hours through. 
Then along the shores, the willows bend 

With the starlight on their tresses, 
And the water's black lips their soft leaves touch, 

With the gentlest of caresses. 
Black lie the shadows along the shore, 

Of a purple chalice with silver rim, 
While deep in the gloom, the white stars bloom 

On the lake so vast and dim. 

Now comes a pale yellow moon, 
With stars blurred blue in the haze. 

Where the tall silent trees like phantoms stand, 
Specter-like in a dim dreamland 

Stretching far its shadowed ways. 

A soft }/ellow eye, the moon looks down, 

Sleepily through the night's thin veil. 
While not a stir the silence breaks. 

And only the shado^^s ghostly pale, 
Gleam in the light the dream moon makes 

As it peers on the silent world. 
In a shimmery glow, each phantom slow 

Parades in the purple gloom. 
And nothing breaks the stagnant light, 

Close to the breast of the brooding night. 
With every thought in perfect tune. 



As into a vision, the wanderer peers. 

With a peace that weighs on the contrite heart, 
That holds him close as he slowly nears, 

Of earth and sky a living part. 
And the pathless maze by the moonlight spun 

Makes of all dreams and dreamers one. 



FAITH. 



Resistless moves the Hand across the dial, 
The page is turned and yet a new begun, 

For such the rule, the triumphant progress, 
From which all order sprung. 

Down the curving stream, a blossom slips. 

It knows not whither it is borne. 
And by ruthless hand of kindless fate, 

It seems from destined purpose torn. 
And yet no less beautiful is it, 

As gentle swung on circles wide. 
Careless and gaily it drifts along. 

On the restless turns of a restless tide. 
Yet even as it goes it seems to sing, 

And soft pink its petals glow. 
As unseen fingers gently guide 

It through the curtaining shadows low. 
For though Fate seems to have slipped in, 

With Chance in which no comfort lies. 
It is but a fragment of the Plan, 

In which Chance is purpose in disguise. 

So why sorrow because behind the dial. 

We cannot see. 
Or touch the hand of ruling destiny. 

The distant hillcrests glitter in the light 
Of white winged dreams in restless flight, 

Yet far between stretch valleys deep 
That faith must span. 

For human limitations cannot curb. 
The grandeur of the universal plan. 



THE PROMISE. 



White the light on the hillcrests bright, 
Where the snow in furrowed row 

GHtters in the yellow glow, 

Of the far slanting morning sun. 

• i 

The shadows are pale and they flash like ale, 
With crimson glint, their purple tint 
Is soft in the mellow light, 

And here and there, in the air everywhere 
Is the hint of Spring. 

Blue is the sky, and its dim depths lie. 
Filled with gold like a chalice old. 

That the lavish monarch, the haughty Sun 
Brings to the feet of the Season young. 

With promises old that anew unfold. 
With the magic of the Year. 

Man may reign in his small domain, 

But Nature pursues her even course. 
And the sunlight's gold as for time untold, 

With the glittering stain of its living flame 
Fires into life the sodden clod. 

Touches with green the bursting bud. 
Strews its gems on the melting snov/. 

And mirrors in its sparkling glow 

The face of God. 



